


Camoflage

by threewalls



Category: KAT-TUN (Band)
Genre: Angst, February 2012, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 02:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kame used to know every inch of Jin's skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Camoflage

Jin has a tattoo on his left arse cheek. That's new. Or at least, it's an artefact of sometime in the last two years.

Kame remembers how Jin was after his nude AnAn shoot, the way he carried around a copy of his own magazine, ready to ambush anyone in the agency that Jin could. They'd stopped already by that point, stopped more completely than they'd done over Jin's first absence in the United States. Jin had still paused when Junno called Kame over, his cocky grin becoming something quieter as Kame flipped slowly through the magazine.

Kame didn't need a magazine to see the skin Jin bared backstage in costume changes, that he's seen countless times before Kame's voice broke and before Jin's shoulders broadened, before Jin started looking around before pulling a T-shirt up and over his head. The AnAn photoshoot looked like acting in a drama-- place your hands on her shoulders, kiss the girl, no, no Kamenashi-kun, a _romantic_ kiss-- just with fewer clothes on and a little more tongue. 

He'd told Jin that it was ok, but his AnAn was going to be more memorable, and later Jin had given him shit for not stripping down all the way. But that was the kind of banter they had as they tried to be normal with each other.

Kame thinks nude doesn't mean naked. Nude doesn't mean anything, not in their industry, when clothing and make-up and bodies are just products to be sold. 

The most unguarded that Kame has seen him, Jin was fully clothed. He was on his knees and his expression was a kaleidoscope of fear and lust and excitement, before he shut his eyes like Kame told him to, Kame's grip on Jin's shoulder tightening, his thighs tensing, come painting streaks over Jin's growing smile. 

Kame was 19 then; he's 26 now. He knows better what he wants. He knows he wants men who know what they want, too, and his career is established enough and his discretion practiced enough that they're not hard to find at all. He knows men (and women) that want what Kame wants them for, and how much less of a monster they make him feel.

Jin was 20, 22, 23, and 25 when he'd told Kame he really didn't like all that weird stuff Kame told him about late at night, no chains, no whips-- no cameras; he's 27 now. The last time he contacted Kame they still shared a manager.

Kame slid this coffee-table hardback from the padded envelope a week ago and he hasn't made it more than twelve pages in. Jin's not naked in these photos. Sure, you can see coy flashes of skin, above the line of his belt, caught through cut-outs along his sleeves, Jin's hair styled back from his face. But Jin's never naked, not in the ways that count. 

On the page that Kame's touching, Jin's lying upside down, arms and legs spread to the four legs of the narrow couch. But there's no pliancy of invitation. His shoulders are tense and his eyes are wary. His eyes are on the camera, on the viewer, and Kame shuts the book, pressing the heels of his palms into the hollows of his eyes. It stops him hallucinating Jin through the viewfinder of his SLR 550. It doesn't stop Kame's eyes burning.

The photobook came with two postcards: one has a phone number scrawled in a very recognisable carefully blocked script. The other is blank. Kame's glad that Jin didn't remember to write "fuck you". Or "happy birthday."


End file.
